A Cook's Nightmare
by willwrite4fics
Summary: When LeBeau has a lousy day, what could make it better? Just one perfect dish is all he wishes for! Last of my entries for the Short Story Speedwriting Contest!


Add Insult to Injury

I give credit to my friend River who helped me hash out the initial idea for this one. It was pretty fun to write, although I think that this counts heavily as me picking on LeBeau. It was pointed out in the challenge that he's getting off easy though so this more than makes up for it, I'm sure. Sorry LeBeau. (not really)

Also, don't google the French in this. Naughty. Very potty mouth, LeBeau.

* * *

LeBeau was a very good chef. An excellent chef even. He had some years of experience in cooking prior to the war, and a great deal of experience cooking in difficult conditions since the war began. He was very familiar with the kitchen in Klink's quarters and was generally considered to be very accomplished at achieving miracles of cuisine inside of it at the drop of a hat.

Today he was only cooking a short, simple three course dinner. The first course barely counted, considering that it was simply salad with a dressing made up of an oil and vinegar mix with several herbs added to bring out the freshness of the salad greens. Then he had a soup with fresh bread rolls followed by the main entree of good beef roast with a Bearnaise sauce and side of asparagus and lentils… with the ending course being a pastry dessert with fresh cream. He should have been cooking it in his sleep without effort.

Yet today, everything was going wrong. Each time he did a task, something went wrong. He was beginning to believe in the gypsy curses that his grandmere had warned him about in his boyhood. Of course, he hadn't been around any gypsies, much less been rude to one. There was no reason for the little Frenchman to have been cursed.

He tried to stir the oil and vinegar mix again and wondered to himself. Perhaps it was some sort of curse for his efforts on the part of Germans? He did cook fancy gourmet meals for Germans fairly often. It was on behest of Colonel Hogan of course, but it was almost always German military members too. Perhaps that crossed out the lack of responsibility from being ordered to do it by Colonel Hogan?

He shook rosemary into the dressing and exclaimed loudly when the cap popped loose and allowed half of the jar to dump into the mixture. He began cursing in French as he tried to scoop the excess out. Because he'd been stirring it vigorously, he found it impossible to get most of it out. Gritting his teeth, he set it aside and decided the Germans would not notice it at all.

As he turned to check the oven, his elbow caught the bowl holding the lettuce and knocked it over. He grabbed for it, juggled it briefly and then lost it. Lettuce scattered over the floor and LeBeau was left holding the metal bowl by the rim. Looking at the closed door, he quickly squatted to gather up all of the lettuce on the floor. Tossing it back into the bowl, he hurried to the sink that was already half full of cinders that had been destined to be fluffy bread rolls and gave the greens the best rinse he could manage and then set it aside again, safely back against the wall this time.

Turning to the soup, he lifted the lid off and found it bubbling fiercely. "Non!" He tried to lower the heat and accidentally turned the flame off entirely. He tried to turn it back on and cursed loudly as it failed to light… again. He got pot holders to grab the pot's handles and hefted it off the burner to set down on the table. Turning the burner all the way on, he lit a long taper to try to light the flame again. Blowing gently finally caused enough gas to drift up and catch. The resulting 'floomph' nearly took out LeBeau's eyebrows and did manage to singe the white of his chef's toque before he jerked away. He would hear complaints from Newkirk about that later on. The Cockney had been pleased to hand his French chef friend the snowy white hat and if he came back with it burnt, he'd complain about it endlessly.

Pleased with the level of flame on the burner finally, LeBeau twisted around and grabbed the pot up only to set it back down instantly, holding his burned fingers tightly. More cursing in French issued forth as he ran cold water from the tap over his hands. After a moment, he got the thick cloth pads to lift the pot onto the stove and replaced the lid. Sucking on the worst burned finger, he opened up the oven door and checked on the roast. Although he half-expected to find it burned to a cinder, it looked perfectly fine. The juices on top bubbled and hissed and the onions had browned to perfection. As long as his main course was okay, he would count on the Germans being pleased.

He shouldn't care if the German filth liked his food or not. Frowning, he flicked on another burner and set a pan on it to heat up. Cutting up apples, he dropped butter into the pan and finally added in the chopped apples. He'd barely turned his back to get some of the precious sugar to add to it when the butter began to burn. "Non, non!" He softly cursed in a monotone as he lifted the pan away from the heat, stirring the contents to try to minimize the damage. After a few minutes, he deemed it safe to add in the sugar and began cursing all over again when the sugar stuck to the pan. Rolling his eyes, he begged the food to cooperate. "Oh just one thing… not tonight, please just cook and do not burn!"

His pot of water on the back of the stove abruptly boiled over and made him jump. Lifting the lid off got him a new set of scalded fingers and he yelped and tossed the lid onto the floor. At that moment the apples began to smoke and the pot of soup burbled softly and bubbled out from under the lid. "C'est des conneries!"

It took him a few moments to get all of the heat turned down, the soup stirred back into simmering complacency and the apple mixture rescued with a minimum of scorching. He splashed some vanilla into the pan, barely even cared when he accidentally added twice the amount he should have and shoved the pan aside to sit with a lid on it.

Langenscheidt came into the kitchen and LeBeau shouted at him. "Casse-toi pauvre con!" When the German stood there blankly, he waved both arms at him. "Get out! Connard! Out! Get out!"

Langenscheidt retreated but then reopened to door to peep in hesitantly. "I apologize, Corporal Lebeau but herr kommandant wanted me to tell you that he is ready for service to begin."

LeBeau whirled and shouted again. "Laisse-moi tranquille! I will serve the dinner when it is ready! Imbecile!"

The door closed quickly. After only a minute or two, Carter ambled in. "Hey LeBeau. Do you need any help?" The smile and the irrepressible good nature of the young American meant it was hard for even the temperamental Frenchman to be angry at the unwanted interruption. "I poured them some wine when Langenscheidt said it would be a few more minutes so I figured I'd come see if there was anything I could do to help."

LeBeau glared at Carter and then glared at everything in the kitchen for good measure. "Fine. they want to eat now? Fine! Here!" He picked up the bowl of half washed salad and dumped it into the serving dish and then poured the dressing over it. "Go serve the filthy Bosch this to start with."

"Okay." Carter agreeably picked it up and got some tongs to serve with. Bending his face down, he sniffed at it. "Smells great!" He wandered out with the over-herbed salad.

LeBeau chunked the asparagus into the boiling water and checked the lentils that he was warming up. The lentils looked fine which made him suspicious. Dipping a spoon into them, he tasted them and immediately coughed wildly. Somehow they had gotten far too much pepper in them and he felt as if he would choke trying to cough.

He drank down several glasses of water before hunting through the supplies searching for something that might neutralize the pepper. Eventually he settled for dumping in some vinegar and a splash of the lemon juice he'd squeezed for the pastry. Another taste and he made a face of disgust. He shook a bit of olive oil into it for good measure and put the lid back onto it.

"The Germans are pigs and they will eat anything." If he had passed off dog food as gourmet hors d'ourves then they'd happily eat the lentils regardless of what he stirred into it. The soup burbled over again and he shook his head and turned the heat down more.

He did suddenly wish that Newkirk was in the kitchen helping him. It wasn't that the Englishman was good at cooking, far from it, he was often more of a hindrance than a help. It also was not that he wanted the comfort of a good friend to help his stress. Newkirk was often a source of comfort but he was also better at being a source of stress at times like this.

But if Newkirk was in the kitchen, then LeBeau could point at him as a reason everything was terrible. There was nothing better than blaming his friend when things went wrong.

The soup tureen was filled with the soup, although LeBeau didn't bother trying to taste it. He could smell the scorched flavor from several feet away. When Carter returned to the kitchen, he was sent back out with the soup and a ladle. LeBeau had already made his pastry dough, although it was cracking and breaking and refusing to stay intact as he folded it around the apple mixture. He picked most of the charred bits and burnt lumps of sugar out. "Merde!" The dough crinkled up as he tried to lay it over top of the gooey filling. He threw his hands up and just scooped up most of it and dropped it on top as if it were a crumble. It would bake. As long as it was something he could put onto a plate, he would count it as good enough.

Suddenly he whirled. He'd forgotten the beef in the oven and muttered to himself as he got his potholders to yank open the oven. He pulled it out and inhaled the aroma of a perfectly roasted piece of beef. Settling it carefully on the counter to rest, he poked it lightly, smiling happily at the texture that told him it was cooked to perfection. Even the onions and carrots around it were just slightly browned, the carrots giving off that hint of caramelization that would compliment the rich beef flavor just so.

He was admiring it as the asparagus water boiled over and so he rushed to lift the soggy overcooked vegetables out. He dumped it onto the plate and nudged it about to try to make it look nicer. A scoop of the lentils to each side helped to hide the grey texture. He shoved the sad pastries into the oven and hoped they wouldn't run all over too badly.

The beef roast more than made up for everything. He sliced it with the greatest of care. Each slice was perfection. It went onto it's own serving platter so that he could arrange it in the best manner. The carrots and onions were displayed around the edge, propping up the slices. A quick minute of work on the stove with a pan and the meat drippings gave him a sauce that he would have died for.

He stepped back and admired it. After the day of complete failures and kitchen disasters, this was a crowning achievement. LeBeau pressed his fingertips to his lips and blew a kiss at the meat.

Carter came in and looked at the dishes eagerly. "Is it all ready? I'll take it in to serve it." He reached for the beef platter and LeBeau grabbed it up himself. "Hey, I'm serving!"

"You take the other dishes. I am not taking ANY chances with this!" He held the tray to himself like a child. "You would probably just drop it on the floor like a imbecile!" Sweeping out of the kitchen, he pushed through the doorway and strode towards the dining room.

He completely missed the discarded umbrella laying on the floor. As he tripped, it seemed almost as if time slowed down to allow him to feel the full wash of horror as he watched the only perfect dish of the entire day's work go flying through the air and land onto the muddy carpet near the doorway. Each perfect slice of beef slid across the rug and finally came to a disastrous stop.

LeBeau had to clamp his jaws shut to prevent himself from screaming. If he did, he would never stop. After all the horrors of the war, he really felt as if this… this one moment might be his utter undoing. With the greatest of efforts, he brought himself under control and stood up to brush himself off. Inhaling deeply, he walked past Carter who was staring at him and at the meat all over the floor.

Stepping into the kitchen, he spotted the black smoke billowing out of the oven and went over to turn off the heat to everything. Opening up the door, he pulled the tray of blackened dough out and stared at it. "This is really just insult to injury."

Walking back to the dining table, he dumped the charred contents of the tray onto the middle of the table, ignoring Klink's yells of outrage and nodded at the guests. "Bon appetite!"

Then he plucked up the bottle of wine from the table and walked out. Drinking straight from the bottle, he exited the building and walked across the compound to the cooler. "Lock me up, Schultzy."

The large sergeant stared down at him in confusion. "What would I lock you up for, Cockroach?"

"War crimes against food, Schultzy." Taking another long pull from the wine bottle, LeBeau took himself inside to find a cell. It would be a bit more peaceful at least. And no one would ask him to cook anything.

* * *

End

Poor LeBeau! And this is the last entry I have written. I was aiming for one for each of the 13 idioms in the challenge but I missed by one idiom because I couldn't come up with a plot for it. Sorry I didn't get all of them! And in before midnight, which I thought would be the deadline, although I'm told the deadline could mean midnight in Hawaii. Thanks for reading!


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